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The pitch

The overwhelming quantity of change is sloshing round my ears. I’m paddling wildly in the rising waters trying to keep my head above all of it, but may come with a new wave. It’s gliding over my mouth now, making me gasp for air every second.

                I got an invite to give a pitch about me and the house I want to build for the last place in Minitopia, two weeks ago. My world has turned round, my OCD got triggered so much that one night it took me two hours to get into bed. My hands are dry and painful from the many times washings.

The last two weeks leading up to the Wednesday of the pitch the tension is building up. I typed my pitch two pages long, got the news my trailer is ready for pick up the Friday after, had a family weekend where I got surrounded by uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews who wanted to know everything resolving round my tiny house. I told myself it would be good practice of what is to come on Wednesday.

Wednesday driving to where the pitch was to be held, the sun was shining hot. It was supposed to take two hours and nineteen minutes, but took four hours. We arrived with only ten minutes to spare. Still first of the group. Who came dripping in when we were already waiting in a room on the top floor with clammy hands. The first to come in where people who already lived in Minitopia. They were talking, relaxing with each other, while the ones who came for the last place like I had tense faces and stiff movements. Instead of the three other contestants, there was only one couple, which upped my changes to fifty percent.

Without much doubt I offered to go first. Much longer with this anxiety I wouldn’t take. The drawings of my tiny house appeared on screen and I folded my two pages open. Only the words, once neatly next to each other, were now floating criss-cross. Nothing to make from and time for improvisation. I forgot half and the ten minutes I had to speak were barely made. Luckily I had my book with impressions and floormaps with me to assist me in my story.

                Having held my pitch and switching places with the other couple did nothing for my last nerves. With every word they spoke I became more certain, they were going to be picked for the last spot.

Before going home and while there was being decided about mine and the other couples fate, my dad and I was shown around the terrain for all the houses. I fell in love, but didn’t dare to hope. What if I would live here? Shall I live on the other side of the Netherlands or will I be forever stuck at my parents’ home?

The next day around twelve o’clock, after a short night of adrenaline, my phone rings. The spot is mine. Now all is left is building a house within three months.

What my home probably is going to look like

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